Distraction
by EndOfAppearance
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and Dr. Watson investigate disappearances that are blighting England. The sociopath is having trouble concentrating - something, or someone, else is invading his thoughts. John, on the other hand, can only think of one thing. Could they be thinking of each other? Pre-Reichenbach. Originally submitted under different username.
1. Chapter 1

**Originally Submitted here under a different username. Removed for personal reasons. Resubmitting **

Sherlock Holmes was bored. Lackadaisical, laissez-faire. He could feel boredom seeping into his very pores, weighing him down onto the sofa; only his steepled fingers rose higher than his rhythmically moving chest. His unclad feet pressed firmly against the arm.

John Watson, however, was not bored. He was used to being dumped by now, but by text was a sink low enough to cause the pit of his stomach to fall into an icy pool of embarrassment.

'I could cope if you were on-call to a hospital,' the message read. 'But not to Sherlock Holmes.' John wondered idly if it was even worth replying – the deal was done… another fruitless exercise.

"Well, that's that," he stood up from the leather armchair and shoved the second-hand phone into his pocket. He glanced over at the silent man lay prone on the sofa. But for the rise and fall of his breathing, he could easily be mistaken for a corpse.

"I'm, er, I'm off, then. To bed," John gave his still-muscular arms a single flap onto his thighs in a hopeless gesture. Sherlock did not even blink. "Ok, I'll see you in the morning, then," John wandered to his room and left the battered door slightly ajar. When the detective got into one of his moods, it was not unusual to find him hysterically burning things, examining filth from behind the fridge or writing text messages to Lestrade accusing him of this or that. _Maniac_, the soldier thought fondly to himself.

The maniac in question allowed the familiar scene of John's rejection to wash over him. Rejection had a salty taste in his mind, and he briefly amused himself with the idea that John had gone to cry himself to sleep, but reasoned that his flatmate had actually gone to indulge in the masculine pastimes of internet pornography, masturbation and a restless night. _Such animalistic needs_, thought the consulting detective. Sherlock allowed himself a mind-smile and felt more than a little pride at his ability to deny himself – _No, _ he corrected, _rise above_, such carnal desire. Exploring his mind palace was the only pleasure he needed.

*/*/*/*

John woke in the warm embrace of the sunshine breaking through the patched curtains. The memory of the previous night's break-up texts flooded into his brain and he groaned into the pillow, glad that Sherlock had said nothing. He listened for a sound of his friend. Nothing. The doctor was tempted to stay in bed all day, but his soldier's body lifted out of the warmth and walked heavily to the bathroom.

Sherlock's grooming products consisted of a bar of rough, exfoliating soap (to get 'extra clean', as he called it) and a daily-used razor that sat merrily on the side of the sink. The detective's regime usually involved standing under the hammering water for a 'long think', and as a result usually used all the hot water. Today, John turned the tap to receive a searing-hot blast of steamy pressure, which he gratefully climbed into.

One shower and half an hour later, John Watson strode into the living room to find what he could only describe as organised chaos. There were piles of papers, yellowed with age stacked up on every surface including (he barely raised an eyebrow) in the freezer drawers. The hum of a shredding machine buzzed from somewhere within the bowels of the paper-mountain and the occasional glimpse of tousled black curls was the only assurance that Sherlock was indeed still in the house.

"Morning, Sherlock," John called over the whirr of the shredding blades. "Tea?"

"No, thank you," came the deep-voiced reply. "As you cannot fail to observe, or at least to see, I am currently in the midst of fulfilling a request you heaped onto me almost a year ago today. To – as you so eloquently put it 'clean up my shit', and get rid of some of these old papers."

"Some of these must be ancient, Sherlock," John picked up a typed sheet detailing a list of ingredients vital for something called 'Adders-bite Sleeping Draught'.

"Yes, as ever your ability to point out the obvious is simply astounding, John," came the scathing reply. John only imagined the pained expression on his friend's face, but he knew it was there.

"Anything from Lestrade?" he poured hot water into two tea-bag filled mugs, ignoring for now the feeling of hurt that always arose when Sherlock snapped at him.

"The usual tedious stories from people with too much time on their hands," the detective replied, feeding a particularly crunchy piece of paper into the shredder which whined in complaint.

"Nothing on the emails?"

"It appears London has gone on her holidays and left me behind to look after the pets," Sherlock snorted over the steaming machine. John felt his insides twist into knots. Now he was the annoying, dying goldfish left for an uncaring sociopath to look after until he forgot to feed it and it died of misery. _Brilliant,_ he thought. He carried the tea over to Sherlock's desk and left it within arm's reach. Leaning over the tottering pile of paper he could see his flatmate, wearing pyjama bottoms and an open cotton shirt sitting cross-legged in front of the industrial-sized paper destroyer. An overflowing bin liner of chopped and thinned evidence squatted next to him. As always, Sherlock avoided eye contact when it came from above, only twitching his mouth in recognition of the tea.

"Nothing in the papers," John sighed after flicking through the broadsheets and tabloids with disdain. No reply from the slightly-diminished pile. Discretely, the doctor eased the battered phone from his pocket and checked his texts,

"She's not replied," came the amused know-it-all voice.

"I wasn't checking," John lied.

"Oh, please," Sherlock's curly head appeared over the top of a water-stained copy of 'War and Peace'. "Don't try and insult me, John, I know exactly what you must be feeling."

"Oh, do you now?" snapped the former soldier, gripping the mobile tightly. "And what must I be feeling right now?"

"A bit of a prat, if you ask me," came the coarse voice belonging to Detective Inspector Lestrade from the living room doorframe. "Everything alright, boys? Mrs Hudson let me in," he strode through the room and wrinkled his nose at Sherlock's project. "Busy, Sherlock?"

"Exceedingly," came the sarcastic reply.

"Well you won't be interested in this then," Lestrade pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the seated detective who snatched at it like a dying man snatches at food. "Disappearance," he said to John who looked blandly at him. "Car left next to the river, no body, no note, no motive as far as we can tell," he sucked his teeth. "Interested?"

"Thrilled, as always, Lestrade for an amusing diversion to this tedium," Sherlock shook himself free of papers and climbed to his bare feet. "Text me the details, we'll be by the river in an hour," he began to button his shirt, covering his sculpted chest. Lestrade nodded at the detective, then at John before striding down the stairs.

"We?" asked John.

"Of course," smirked Sherlock. "I wouldn't leave you behind to finish this job on your own," and with a gleam of self-amusement, swept into his bedroom. John sat confused and bemused at the morning that had happened so suddenly at Baker Street. Anyone else would have despaired at the idea of the mess, the mystery case or the jibes from their so-called friend, but all John could think about was the look on Sherlock's face when he said he wouldn't leave him behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock texted all the way to the Thames. _He can hardly be texting Lestrade_, thought John. _And he's not texting me_. _Who else is there?_ Images of Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper and even Jim Moriarty flashed into his mind – he dismissed them all. He doubted Mrs Hudson had text anyone in her life, Molly would wake up in her own hospital if Sherlock Holmes ever text her, and a consulting detective was unlikely to keep up electronic correspondence with his arch-enemy. Irene Adler, the only woman to text Sherlock regularly was not longer in a state fit to message anyone except via Ouija Board, so the recipient of the detective's frenzied typing remained a mystery.

"Anything new?" he ventured.

"Mm, only that the car wasn't hired, there was a collection of maps on the passenger seat and the driver wore blue nail polish," murmured Sherlock, eyes down.

"Any ideas?"

"Many," Sherlock's baritone replied. His slender fingers tapped silently on the touch-screen. The latest model. Later than latest, considering Mycroft had sent it a few weeks ago with a note warning against waving it about needlessly. It had only taken three days to remove all of Mycroft's bugs from the handset. The cab pulled up a short walk from the scene – police tape barred the entrance, and Sherlock held it aloft for John to stoop under. The pair walked confidently past the sneer of Anderson, who, John noticed, was keeping a low profile for a change.

"Nice to see him where he belongs," John said softly, nodding at Anderson's proximity to the freshly-delivered porta-loo. Sherlock smirked. Any degrading remarks about Anderson were Bach to his ears.

"Ah, Sherlock," Lestrade wandered over and lead the black-coated man towards a silver car whose driver and passenger doors were both open. With no body or living person to examine, John was left to play the third wheel and stood back to allow Sherlock to dance all over the scene, magnifier out and scarf swinging about in delight.

_He needs a few decent meals_, the doctor thought, looking at the slender frame of his friend. _Or a wife_, he smiled at the thought of a woman running after Sherlock brandishing square meals and baby-furniture catalogues. _I wonder what Sherlock was like as a baby?_ He watched the elegant man sweep a thin hand through his curls and say something to Lestrade that made the Inspector's mouth fall open slightly. John Watson allowed himself another look at his friend's alabaster face before walking towards the car.

"So?"

"So, we've got a kidnapping gone wrong, it would seem," Lestrade growled.

"It 'seems', nothing Detective Inspector," snapped Sherlock. "The nail varnish was scratched onto the wheel as the wearer tried to prevent their being dragged out of the car; the passenger door is open because the kidnapper didn't have time to shut it before they went for the driver; the car is here because it might make the more stupid members of the force think it was suicide; should I go on?"

"No, that answers my immediate questions," John said amicably. "So, where is she?"

"She?"

"The driver?"

"Oh, John, don't be so predictable," sighed the black-haired man. "The copy of Men's Health on the backseat; the full-strength cigarettes in the glove-box; a distinct smell of some foul, cheap deodorant; this car was obviously being driven by a man."

"Obviously," the doctor whispered, glancing at an apologetic-looking Lestrade who had obviously received a similar tirade a moment ago.

"A cross-dressing man wearing electric blue nail-polish," mused Sherlock. "Shouldn't be too hard to find, even without his size-eleven feet," he raised his eyebrows and smirked at Lestrade, who scowled.

"So the driver is dragged from the car, and then what?"

"The kidnapper is not expecting a man – the car was dark and the street he was picked up from was dimly lit, as most red-light districts are. He panicked when he realised and fled from the scene."

"What happened to the driver?" snapped Lestrade.

"And why is the car still here?" John cocked his head on one side in confusion. Sherlock took in a great, shuddering breath made him seem, if possible, taller.

"The driver is well to-do. Private car, silver Mercedes, expensive. There's no litter in the far – he has it cleaned regularly, and the radio is tuned to Radio Four. There's a shirt hanger in the back window, three valet receipts in the driver's door for The Savoy, and when the report comes back, you'll see he was possibly someone's expensive assistant."

"Sir," Donovan interrupted, looking straight at Lestrade, ignoring the consulting detective's flow of speech. "This just came. Car belongs to a Mr. Jacob Friedrich; P.A to someone in MI5, apparently," she handed her boss the plastic wallet and stalked uneasily in her heels back towards the waiting police van.

"For once in her life, Donovan is correct – Mr. Friedrich would surely not wish to expose his unusual habits of cross-dressing and picking up kidnapping prostitutes to his employer. He's around here somewhere, try the local gay bars, Lestrade, you'll find him," Sherlock thrust his hand into his coat pockets and began marching back towards the road. John shrugged and followed him.

"Wait!" called the gravelly voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade. "How do you know he was pretending to be a prostitute, Sherlock?"

"Open the glove-box, Inspector," the call came back. Greg Lestrade reached into the car and pulled the tab for the glove-box. Out spilled a quantity of condoms, sex toys and a folded A4 printout headed 'Red Light Districts of London'. He shook his head in disbelief and allowed himself a small smile.

*/*/*/*

The cab home was completed in silence, the way Sherlock liked it. It was soothing silence, accentuated by the engine and John's surprisingly rhythmic breathing. _Does the army teach you to breathe like that? _He wondered. He would have to conduct some research. Anything to avoid another case like that. _My god, I must be desperate for distraction_, he mused, adjusting a shelf in his mind palace.

**Ding**. Without looking, he knew it was Mycroft. Well, he didn't feel like looking at his phone right now, or even for the next few hours. What he wanted was some distraction.

*/*/*/*

The flat was cleared of papers when they walked in. John Watson looked up at Sherlock's cheekbones for an explanation, but he just squinted and muttered "…Mycroft." He immediately picked up the note left on the mantelpiece, before flinging it to the floor. John could see it read in blue ink:

**_'Do not ignore me, Sherlock.' _**

The usual check of emails, post and asking Mrs Hudson if anyone had called was completed, and Sherlock's plump lips grew thinner and thinner until they virtually disappeared. When he finally came back from searching his own bedroom, John noticed his arms were covered in beige, circular nicotine patches.

*/*/*/*/

_Keep it up, if only for the doctor's sake_, the recovering addict told himself after finding yet another empty sachet of cocaine. _You agreed to go cold turkey and you know from research that this is to be expected. Not even a cigarette_, he thought as he un-balled all his socks. _Still_, he consoled himself as the pinch of the nicotine patches bit onto of the hairs of his arm, _it could be worse, I could be doing this alone._

*/*/*/*

John's soldier's eyes had been watching Sherlock play a frenzied tune on his violin long enough for the tea he was drinking to grow cold.

"Wasted… I am completely wasted, John," his bow became a blur as he gritted his perfect teeth in anguish. "I can feel my brain stagnating, John, I need a real case, or – "

"No," his doctor said over the lid of the laptop. "Not a chance."

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock stopped playing and flung himself, into the armchair, cradling the instrument and bare feet upon the seat. John noticed the zesty smell of the shampoo Sherlock used on his black, curly locks. "I need work, stimulus, something!" the suffering man snarled into the neck of the violin. On cue, his mobile went **ding.**

"It keeps doing that, are you going to get it?"

"No, it's Mycroft. He keeps doing it," Sherlock plucked a few strings experimentally. "Some pointless, pathetic news about a politician's wife."

John's mobile trilled. It was the elder Holmes brother again. John always felt guilty when Mycroft text him – as though he was being watched. When Mycroft Holmes looked at John Watson, the ex-soldier noticed the piercing eyes and superior smile only. When the younger Holmes brother looked at him…

"It's Mycroft again here," he interrupted his own thoughts. "They've received the wife's fingers through the post," he looked up at Sherlock's rolling eyes.

"Dull, predictable," the curly-haired man sighed, got up and looked under the skull for cigarettes. "Why does no one ever post eyeballs or a spleen?"

"Messy, wet envelopes I suppose. Sherlock, are you actually taking this case?"

"No, tedious, monotonous…" Sherlock bent to pick up his bow, exposing his lower back and the slightest hint of buttock. He drew the bow sharply, creating a screaming, grating note. "Barely even a five."

_Last time Sherlock rated his cases by number, he had been wrapped in a crisp bed-sheet, and then…_

"So, we aren't on the case," John talked over his treacherous mind. He folded the laptop closed and straightened the moulting jumper he wore like a new uniform. Sherlock was pressing his forehead against the glass of 221B, staring at the traffic. "Keep away from the windows, Sherlock," John said, heading for the kitchen. "If you behave, I'll buy you a Chinese later."

It was a childish bribe, but Sherlock took his head off the glass and played a few cheerful notes before making his way to the sofa and lying back down. His long legs bent to avoid hanging over the edge. His flatmate glanced back at the thin, graceful man, smiling at the way he compromised for his height, remembering the time he had seen those lithe and surprisingly muscular legs escape from that toga-like sheet in the palace, and that lightening-flash of –

_Stop it, John_, he told himself. _You need to get a grip_. He pictured himself gripping the wrist of the world's only consulting detective.

"I'm off out," he said loudly to the silence. "Behave," he added as he pulled his leather-patched jacket on. "Remember, Chinese only if you're good."

Sherlock scowled and listened to John pace speedily down the stairs to the flat, leaving in a hurry, but with no clear destination.

The answer was obvious, as always. It wasn't the wife's fingers in the post (How would that look in the papers?), and Mycroft knew he'd been to the failed kidnapping earlier that day. Somehow, these two cases were connected, but he wasn't able to concentrate on _how_. Sherlock massaged his temples with spidery fingers, moving his hands over his head to rest his pale palms on top of his curls, fingers pointing down in a skull embrace. John had been right, although Sherlock would never tell him – they were interesting cases, simply by the connection they shared, which was hidden for the now. Sherlock felt his head was full of too many thoughts, flapping like moths against the lights of his eyes. The mind palace needed a de-clutter, just like Baker Street in general, and now was just the time to do it.

He began to file away rogue thoughts, deleting information at will, alphabetising the cabinets and forcing closed the increasingly full drawer that he had carefully and clearly labelled 'John H. Watson'.


	3. Chapter 3

The Chinese food was excellent, as always. There was no charge (a grateful meat-buyer had once been proven not to be putting human flesh into the chow mein by a busy and hungry Sherlock Holmes), so John picked up a trashy DVD to go with the food. He would enjoy the shallow story, and Sherlock would enjoy correcting the film and telling him the ending before it happened.

"Of course he doesn't love you," the detective slurped between mouthfuls of rice. "Just look at how he's combed his hair this morning!" He gave John a look that said 'please tell me you see it too', and John returned a wan smile. The walk had erased the thoughts of Sherlock from his head, but he had not been prepared to walk into the flat to find naked-to-the-waist Sherlock dripping wet and covered in nicotine patches stalking around muttering things like "kidnap", "coincidence" and "ridiculous".

"That's the second shower you've had today," he had said, plating up the food.

"And the tenth this week, John, you are to be congratulated on your abilities to both count and follow my movements like this," Sherlock picked up a plate and swept off to the sofa with it.

The film was as John had expected – dull as Baker Street's dishwater, and just what the boys needed. John felt his brain switch off completely as the wooden characters shouted and laughed, and Sherlock used the background noise to close more doors in his head, making room for the connections between the two boring, yet simultaneously interesting cases.

A noise like a pneumatic drill bored into Holmes' head and he turned a face twisted up in rage to stare at the sleeping form of Dr Watson, slumped on the sofa. How very irritating. Now there was no chance of any tea, or indeed reclining on the plush leather whilst the tea was being made.

_Pathetic, _his crystal mind conjured up the word, toying with it in regards to John Watson. _No, somehow that doesn't fit_, he dropped the word and search for another. _Lonely? One wouldn't describe John as lonely, the amount he gets dumped,_ mused the detective. _Wanting, most definitely. _He cast his expert eye at the sleeping doctor. No dress sense, hair thinning on top, age carved into his face, which had been looking increasingly pale and drawn lately. Perhaps he was ill. _Doctor or not, he hasn't been looking well_, Sherlock thought. More and more lately, John had been running his worn hands over his face, looking distracted and going out for walks on his own. Even to a sociopath like Sherlock, it was obvious something was wrong. He let his mind recall his flatmate's activities of late. Aside from the dates and visit for fetch shopping, he went out more and more without purpose.

"John, what are you hiding?" whispered the consulting detective, pushing himself up to sit cross-legged, facing the sleeping man. John didn't move, only let his head roll forwards, which quelled the snores. Sherlock ran his eyes over his sleeping friend. _Same, soldier's physique although going slightly to seed, _he listed to himself. _No new habits; no bitten finger nails or cuts_… Sherlock guiltily shut the door on the memory of the track marks that lay in the crook of his left elbow. _John Hamish Watson, what are you concealing from me?_ He delicately took hold of the other man's wrist and turned it to rest two long, white fingers on the pulse. Steady, with a slight flutter to betray the doctor's dreaming state. The wrist was thicker than Sherlock's own, and the hands calloused through work and toil rather than chemical burns and guns backfiring. Sherlock turned his friend's hands over to examine the palms. A crease betrayed John's gun hand; the hand that had fired, had killed to save Sherlock, though they had only met a few days previously. _Yes, _he thought. _You killed someone to save me, and I let you,_ the pale man stroked John's lifelines with resolute thumbs.

*/*/*/*

John was having a strange dream. He dreamed that Sherlock was giving him a gun and asking him to choose between him and himself. His dream-hands shook as the hot metal of the firearm pointed first at himself, then at Sherlock. He felt sick, sweat trickled down his temples as he fought some invisible force to aim away, not at the man he –

"Uh!" he sat up, wide awake, the dream melting away.

"John, what's wrong?" the urgent voice snapped beside him. It was then that the doctor noticed Sherlock holding one of his tanned hands in two of his pale ones. The detective's thumbs were touching the soft palm with purpose; his pulse thrummed in his hand, betraying the hot-and-cold feeling that washed over him.

"What's wrong? Tell me!" Sherlock repeated, keeping a firm hold. The television blared silently into the darkness.

"I… had a strange dream," John said slowly, not daring to move.

"You have to let dreams go, John," Sherlock's grip relaxed slightly. "They are merely chemical imbalances that increase as one focuses on a particular worry or desire…" his voice drifted off, noticing John's steadfast stare at their peculiar, one-sided handshake.

"What was that about desire?" John whispered.

Sherlock swallowed. "Sometimes our desires are dangled tantalisingly close to us in dreams, to give us courage to go after them," he looked into John's brown eyes.

"And threatened to be taken away?"

"A natural fear for something held dear, obviously…"

"If it could be protected..?" John inhaled slowly, trying to slow the give-away pulse Sherlock still felt. Something slipped behind Sherlock's eyes and his mouth opened slightly.

"Protected… Yes, John, that's it!" The fire was back behind Sherlock's eyes - he dropped John's hand and rounded the desk to the laptop. "Last month, there was a disappearance at a so-called secure facility in Nottingham," he began to type in earnest. "Doors locked from the inside, just like the politician's wife, no sign of the kidnapper, just like the car near the river," he read the results with flickering eyes. "This is it, John, this is the case the will give us the link between these disappearances," he leapt up, whipping his phone out and beginning to text. "I'll inform Lestrade, you get us two train tickets to Nottingham, as soon as possible. Lives are in the balance, and the game is on!" he danced out of the room.

John sat open-mouthed, drenched in sweat on the sofa. For a moment, he had seen in the cold, grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes the thing he had been hoping and imagining to see for so long.

*/*/*/*

"The owner said Mr. Friedrich came in and downed three shots of vodka, and had barely straightened his skirt when a tall, skin-head looking chap in a suit whispered something to him and the two of them left together," Greg Lestrade read the report out loud. "Witnesses said the two of them got into a gun-metal grey BMW which then drove off at high speed," he looked at Sherlock and John.

"So we've lost him," John chewed his lips.

"That's one lead gone, hope fully you've found us another, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective nodded and brought out of his thick coat a print-out of a police report from Nottingham Police. "Miss Constance Green, disappeared three months ago from a secure hospital facility," he handed the report to Lestrade. "Her room was locked from the inside, but could be easily forced," he looked at John.

"Hospital doors are usually two-way locks, especially if someone is thought to be a danger to themselves," Dr Watson offered.

"So we can't depend on the door being forced, simply unlocked and locked behind them?" Lestrade made a note on the report.

"The real question is how they avoided the security cameras," Sherlock paced around Lestrade's cubicle. "No tampering with the computers, no photographs, nothing," he leaned over the desk, resting his slight weight on both hands. "We need to get in, it is essential."

Lestrade and Watson exchanged glances. Sherlock seemed to be asking permission to go, and Sherlock never asked permission for anything.

"Yes," D. I. Lestrade said slowly. "I'll let them know you're coming, shall I?"

"Excellent," Sherlock straightened up and gave a ghost of a smile. "John, what time were those train tickets for?"

"Eleven-thirty."

"Then we haven't a moment to lose, have we?" and slapping John playfully on the shoulder, swept out of the room. As always, when Sherlock left a room, there was a silence so awkward you could have bent it. The Detective Inspector and the Army Doctor looked at each other.

"Is… is he alright?" Greg asked John.

"Is he ever alright?" John shrugged in reply.

"Are you?" It was a loaded question. John took a breath before replying.

"I usually am," he smiled a sideways smile and followed his friend out of the glass room.

*/*/*/*

Sherlock generally avoided leaving London. The capital was a stimulus, a honey-pot for crime, activity and general mayhem – just what Sherlock Holmes thrived on. The provinces generally held little interest and the detective chose to ignore all but the most thrilling cases from anywhere further north than Luton. So to be on a shaking, rattling train headed to the Midlands was enough to drive him to distraction.

"Sit still," hissed John. Sherlock sat bolt-upright, staying away from contact between his mop of hair and the skin-cell encrusted seat behind him. The sway of the train made him fidget to stay away from the Formica-and-sweat covered train table between him and his friend.

John was answering comments on the blog. Sherlock watched his experienced hands punch the keys and read, through watching his hands position, exactly what he was replying to the 'fans'. _Thanks for your comments_, he typed languidly. _I'll be sure to tell Mr. Holmes all about that_, and more interestingly, _No chance of an engagement, though thanks for the compliment_.

"Engagement?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head on one side.

"Hm? Oh, someone wrote 'What a cute couple, when are you announcing your engagement?' about a photo of us in the _Telegraph_," John bit his lower lip in faux-concentration. Sherlock felt as though he'd swallowed an ice cube.

_Strange, it's not the first time someone has suggested as much_, he thought as he stared out of the smeary window. John reached forwards to hold the watery paper coffee cup, and Sherlock opened the mind-file to remember holding that hand between his own. _Pleasant, _he admitted. _Is that what is bothering John so much? That I don't care about him? _He sneakily looked at his blogger, who was staring stoically at the screen. _Caring is a dangerous thing, Sherlock_, he told himself. _Look what happened to The Woman when she dared to care for…_ a pair of brown, jealous eyes flickered into his memory, and the sociopath felt something slip inside himself.

Below the table, the two men's legs both reached out towards the opposite seat, politely avoiding kicking and shoe-shuffling. With a forced, casual, nonchalant sniff, Sherlock leaned his right leg slightly to make contact with the heavy denim covering John's. There was a twitch of surprise from the unexpected contact, then the taught, soldier's muscle relaxed, allowing the weight of the thinner man's limb to rest, leaning. Sherlock's eyes continued to stare out of the window, and John's fingers still traced the touchpad on the laptop.

A slight clearing of the throat from the ex-soldier, and Sherlock felt his leaning leg become trapped in an embrace as John's left leg leaned to put weight onto his friend's. Sherlock completed the pattern by shifting his weight and running his left leg slightly along the material of John Watson's trousers, pulling slightly at the denim before settling, knee touching shin in a forced yet natural way.

The two men carried on evading eye contact, one texting, one typing in denial of the slightly moving, touching, limbs beneath eye contact. The only clue that either of them was aware of their lower body was the tremor of John Watson's hands and the icy grey veil that had dropped over the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

The train rattled north.


	4. Chapter 4

Chiltern House had a name much grander than it deserved. The ivy had eaten into the brickwork, leaving a murky brown trail on the whitewash. Dr. Watson spoke into the intercom, reading the report from Nottinghamshire Police and assuring the snappish voice that he and Sherlock were not simply journalists after a story or the regular kind of 'Private Investigators'.

The consulting detective watched his friend's hunched figure speak patiently into the small microphone. The cab from the station to Chiltern House had been a deliciously silent one, with both men staring straight ahead at the road. John had only spoken to ask Sherlock to wait while he attacked the intercom, and Sherlock had not spoken at all. His orderly mind had lost control of the cabinet dedicated to John Watson, with files and pictures spilling into his conscious mind, clouding his vision. Some part of him feared he would start talking about everything he was trying to close off.

"We're in, Sherlock!" John called as the plastic door clicked open. The doctor propped it open with his foot. "Try and be normal," he hissed as the thick coat of the detective swept into the building.

"Normal? Boring," Sherlock said under his breath. The lobby had the sharp smell people often confused with urine, but which was actually industrial cleaning products. John Watson noted the second locked door between them and the resident's area of the house. _Not exactly completely secure_, he thought. _But that's bulletproof glass, and these doors jam if they are forced…_

"He walked in," Sherlock said gently. "This was no break-in, John. This was a disappearance."

"Believe it or not, I do occasionally listen and take things in," John said waspishly, glaring at the taller man. Their eyes met, and the burning feeling on John's skin that had been ignited on the train began tracing its way down his body. Sherlock let his eyes flicker over the doctor's eyes, lips, before looking quickly away. In his coat pockets, his thin white hands balled into fists.

*/*/*/*

"Yes, Connie was a resident here for more than eight years," the steady hand of Yvonne Holden stirred the sugar in her teacup. "We offer long-term care for people who are a danger to or are unable to look after themselves," she smiled at the men on the opposite sofa.

"Spare us the hard sell, Ms Holden, we read your brochure," sighed Sherlock. He looked at the woman. Mid-fifties, dyed orange hair, manicure, a cat, husband sleeping in a separate bed…

"Was Miss Green a danger to herself?" John asked, sipping the cheap, grey cup of tea. Ms Holden thinned her lips. "It would certainly aid us in finding her," the doctor probed gently. Ms Holden put down her china cup and rested her chin on her hands.

"You must understand Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," she pleaded with her eyes. "We had given up hope at the time, and when he started coming…"

"Yes or no, Ms Holden?" the taller man frowned.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Connie was very much a danger to herself. She had recovered from locked-in syndrome a year before she came for us, but had been self-harming, threatening to commit suicide… she was anorexic and bulimic…"

"Was. Miss. Green. A danger. To. Herself?" Sherlock repeated robotically. "I am not interested in vague diagnoses of eating disorders and self harm. I mean, was she likely to put herself in danger – danger as she would perceive it?"

Ms Holden looked at the thin, patchy carpet. "No, I don't believe she would have. I mean, would do," she looked at John who made another note. "She always remembered to lock her door, take her tablets and so on. She was a model patient, in some respects," she finished, picking up the tea again.

"And did Miss Green have many visitors?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Only her parents, and her partner."

"Partner?"

"Oh, yes. They met when she awoke from locked-in syndrome. He was a nurse and looked after her during some of her earlier illnesses…" Ms Holden trailed off.

"Where is he now?"

"Committed suicide two days before Connie disappeared. We didn't tell her – we were discussing how to break it to her before…" Ms Holden's eyes welled up. "He was such a caring, kind man. Always happy to help clean her up or take her shopping. He had depression for years, and never sought help, said he could work his way better, you see?"

"I do not just see, I observe," Sherlock smiled, climbing to his feet. "We'll see Miss Green's room now, if we may?"

*/*/*/*

"You think the boyfriend faked his own death?" John said when Ms Holden left them alone in front of Room Eight.

"Obviously," said Sherlock, watching John unlock the simple mortise lock. "But the real question is still how he got in and out of the building."

"You think he did it? Kidnapped her or whatever?" the door swung open, with a fusty smell of unwashed linen.

"More than likely, but…" Sherlock strode over to the barred window. "No evidence of _how._ Think, John, I need you to think!"

"_You_ need _me_ to think?"

"I need to see this room as an ordinary person would," Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled the stale air. "Describe what you can see."

"An unmade bed with white sheets and a cheap, thin pillow," John began. "A dressing table with photos of a man, a woman in a wheelchair and two children…"

"Good, go on, what do you _see?_"

"Connie Green liked to keep organised," the doctor said. "Three notebooks, two of them stuffed with papers… A diary, this year's…"

"Keep going," Sherlock raised his spidery hands as if reaching towards an answer, his eyes still closed.

"She took at least three painkillers, one blood thinner, no, _two_ blood thinners, that's odd…" John lifted the packets of warfarin-based medication and frowned.

"John?"

"Just look at this, Sherlock," he handed the detective the box of medicine. After glancing at it, Sherlock massaged his temples.

"Why would she be on that amount of medicine, John, tell me?"

"Ms Holden said she was good at taking her own tablets. Could they have simply left her to it, and someone switched the dosage without them noticing?"

"That amount of blood thinners would cause brain inactivity, hallucinations, eating disorders…" Sherlock trailed off, snatching up the box again. "This is it, John. This blood medicine is the key. Ring Lestrade and ask him for a medical background, drugs prescribed, of all the victims so far," he looked up at the dismal sight of Constance Green's abandoned bedroom.

"Where did she go?" Dr Watson said sadly.

"Where would you hide someone?" Sherlock answered slowly. "If you wanted to hide them for a long time… the last place anyone would ever look?" John shook his head. "Get back, against this wall," Sherlock pulled John's hand to stand with him against the barred window. The light shone against their silhouette forms. "On three, I want you to jump, as hard as you can on the floor," he looked into the brown, soldier's eyes of his friend. "One… two…"

John squeezed Sherlock's hand and took a deep breath. "…Three!" They jumped and stamped down with their full weight. The foam ceiling tiles in the centre of the room collapsed against the shake, their frothy shapes dissolving as the weight they had been supporting gave way. Clumps of snowy plastic product tumbled down onto the unmade bed, a feathery down for the desiccated, brown body of Constance Green that fell with a moist thud from its hiding place in the ceiling onto the bed it had inhabited one month before.


	5. Chapter 5

John Watson was used to the stammering, nervous approach of Molly Hooper in a pathology lab, so the brisk, cheerful manner of Dr. Alicia Harmony seemed oddly out of place.

"Completely drained of blood," she said in the kind of sing-song voice usually employed by Primary School teachers. "Looks like this lady met a vampire!" She pointed out the slash wound across the throat. "Well, someone with a sharp knife, at least." The joke fell flat onto the mortuary slab. The army doctor only twitched his nose to let her know he had been listening. He was not focussing completely, everything he saw reminded him of Sherlock, and his lack of presence. The consulting detective had declared the corpse 'dull and obvious' and slouched out of the room. It was a typical Sherlockian sulk, but John felt more than a little embarrassed about it.

"How long would you say she had been dead?" John nodded at the body.

"Difficult to tell with a corpse as dry as this… She'd been suspended by the ankles, look, before her throat was cut, but she could have been dead anywhere between a week and a few months," Dr. Harmony pushed her red glasses up her nose and winked.

"There wasn't much of a rotting smell in the room. There was a slight odour, but nothing bad," mused the army doctor.

"Well, there wouldn't be, would there? Only muscle and bone to rot, and all other fluids had been drained, judging by the amount of time she'd been hanging, which was quite a while, looking at the rope burns on her flesh." There was a silence, only the squeak of the blade fan swirling slowly around.

"So, that's that," John took the pencil from behind his ear and placed it next to the brown, mummified and curled fingers of the late Constance Green.

"Dr. Watson," The strawberry blonde doctor looked over her red, square frames. "Why would someone do this? I've worked in pathology for ten years, and never seen anything this… interesting," she twisted her mouth in a mixture of humour and disgust.

"Why does anyone do anything? That's what Sherlock would say," he replied.

"Are you… I mean, sorry if it offends you, but –"

John Watson sighed a sigh that seemed to contain worry, fear and disappointment. "No," he said. "We're not. I'm not."

"Then, do you fancy going out for a drink? Tonight?"

"I've got to get back to London."

"Then we could skip the drink," she pushed the glasses back up her nose and smiled. She was extremely pretty, in a pathologist sort of way, and John was tempted to say yes, stay the night at her undoubtedly immaculate flat and head down to London the next morning, but an unfamiliar feeling of guilt wormed around in his abdomen, along with the knowledge that Sherlock was, at that moment, two labs away, looking at a skin sample of the cadaver that lay between Dr Watson and Dr Harmony.

"Alicia, I'm flattered, I really am," he shoved his hands into his pockets. "But, I still have to get back for him, even if we're not…" _Why is it so hard to finish that sentence?_

"I see," she picked up the notes and walked around the table. "Well, actually, I don't see, but I respect what you're saying," and with another tiny wink, clicked on her stilettos out of the lab.

_What are you doing, John? _He asked himself. _You'll never get another woman like that offering you to 'not have a drink'. _He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to pinch the thoughts away. _His hand was so cold,_ he thought, remembering squeezing Sherlock's hand in fright as the corpse had dropped through the ceiling. They had remained joined at the palm for several moments before Ms. Holden had burst through the door, screaming and wailing. The rest was all a blur.

*/*/*/*

Sherlock stared, unseeing through the microscope at the shred of skin. The woman had been suspended by the ankles and drained of blood, but the motive behind the crime still eluded him. _Are we to find Mr. Friedrich in a similar condition? _ He vaguely wondered. He couldn't concentrate, and simply stared through the eyepiece at the magnified cells. He had rifled through his mind-files, research and experience, but could not find a logical explanation for his current scatterbrain, lack of focus, or increasing dependency of his friend.

The lab door opened and he felt uncharacteristically happy as his flatmate and colleague strolled through. He fought to rearrange his features into their normal placid shroud.

_John, John, John, John, John._

"How, er, how are you getting on?" the colleague asked. His shoulders were set, betraying his tension and expectation.

"Mm, nothing to see. Too little moisture, no cell movement, and it seems the corpse was dipped or washed in white vinegar after its… treatment. So no stray DNA, and that explains the smell, of lack thereof," Sherlock recited tonelessly. _John, looking right at me_.

"If you've done, we can get the nine o'clock train," John suggested, taking the orange tickets out of his jeans.

"Yes," the detective said, taking the slide off the microscope and stepping on it, crunching the glass. "I need London."

"Yes, everything does seem more normal, in London," John said as Sherlock swept past him, turning his collar up and threading his scarf as he liked it.

_Some things more than others, _thought Sherlock. _I need to clear my mind – and I cannot do that here, too many variables, too much damn distraction, too much –_

"John," Sherlock said suddenly. "I hope you, er…" _No, don't get lost for words, not now. _He looked into the confused and hopeful face of his friend. "I'm glad," he finished, standing straighter. "I'm glad you're here to do this with me," he looked into the eyes of the doctor, soldier and friend that he…

"Thanks," John coughed out. "I'm happy to be here, really I am," he smiled almost shyly at the tall, curly-haired man. There was an awkward silence, and then Sherlock broke into a rare, full-on grin and held his hand out to John, who took it, and squeezed it happily, before the two of them pocketed their hands, marched from the morgue and towards the road, the cab, the station and London.

*/*/*/*

"Drained her _blood?_" Lestrade's face was a mask of horror.

"Yep, that's what everyone seemed to think," John shrugged.

"Blimey," the D.I scratched his head. "Well, does Sherlock have any ideas about why someone'd do this?"

"Not so far, but he's…" John stopped, unsure how to go on. "He's on it," he finished.

"Right, well here're the medical records he asked for," Lestrade handed over a paper folder. "We're using what resources we can, but there's no comparison to this case, really."

"Just the way he likes it," smiled the visitor, taking the files with him.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Sherlock was in his bedroom, the door locked. When they got back to London, there had been an awkward exchange of words, then bedroom doors had clicked shut, and Sherlock had spent the night lying prone on the mattress, summoning every ounce of power he had to force closed the memories, thoughts and feelings, until, sweating and twitching, as John's alarm rang into the morning air, he had succeeded. His mind was clear. Only the three cases remained.

_One body, two kidnappings, one ransom note, _he mused. _Two women, one man. Man pretending to be a woman. Co-incidence? When is John getting back from Lestrade? Need those medical records. Why didn't they bother kidnapping Constance Green?_ _Maybe John saw more than he's letting on in the morgue. Will have to pump him for information._ A locked door in the mind palace rattled, but the lock held fast.

"Sherlock?" he was home. The detective stirred, heaving his stiff arms and legs off the bed. Perhaps he should have slept last night, instead. _No_, he told himself. _Sleep brings dreams, after all._

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

John Watson watched his flatmate read through the three sets of medical record whilst working on the blog. He was tempted to publish thoughts about this case, but something stopped him, and he simply saved the entry for later. Since they had got back to London, Sherlock seemed to have switched himself off completely. He was back to the man John had met a year ago – icy and robotic with little compassion.

"What's that?" the doctor asked as Sherlock made a surprised noise.

"Mm? Oh, no one but Miss Green was on any kind of medication… Beginning to get interesting," replied Sherlock.

"So, the drugs are a dead-end… any other similarities?"

"If I find any, rest assured you will be the first one to receive the good news."

John went back to the laptop and brought up his subscription to the medical journals. A few searches confirmed the warfarin-based medications, coupled with the painkillers would have certainly caused delirium, heart-failure and even M.E. Connie Green had been in torment through no fault of her own. His gentle soul melted a little at the thought of the woman kept sick and in distress for someone else's purposes. It seemed so unfair, and John found himself willing Sherlock to hurry up and find the other people stolen away, in case he had to endure second-hand agony again.

"Find them, Sherlock," he looked over the lid of the laptop at the surprised man.

"Excuse me?"

"Just… find them, ok? I don't think I could…" John took a deep breath, his eyes prickling. "It's just, shit, I don't know."

He slammed the laptop shut, suddenly furious. This was taking too long. The business on the train (his muscular leg flexed in memory of the delicious touch), and the way Sherlock's eyes touched every part of his body could no longer be ignored. The two of them at 221B was causing electric tension as they sat, unspeaking, but stealing glances. _I have had enough_, he thought.

"John…"

"No, don't 'John' me," the doctor said, a pressing feeling in his chest. "Just, just what is going on here, Sherlock?"

"With the case?"

John felt the angry balloon in his chest deflate rapidly. "Yes, Sherlock, with the sodding case. Why not? That's all that bloody matters to you, isn't it?"

"I don't know _what_ is going on yet, John," Sherlock said slowly. "But as soon as I figure it out, I will bring you into the developments."

"What a fucking treat!" John stormed into the kitchen. "What am I, Sherlock? Just what am I to you? Your tea-boy? The pet you drag around to show to people?"

"You're – "

"A waste of space? The man who can't _ever_ see what is going on?"

"You know _far_ more than me what is going on," Sherlock stood up, hands balling into fists. "If you had any idea of what I'm having to do just to _concentrate_ – "

"So I'm breaking your concentration," seethed John. "Fucking hell, that takes the proverbial biscuit." He picked up his coat. "I'm going out, don't bother asking where."

"John, you are not _listening_ to me…"

"Maybe I'm through listening to you," the doctor stopped, one hand on the door knob. "Watching you steeple your fingers and take up space and insult me."

"I don't mean to – "

"No, Sherlock, I think you do mean to," John said, his eyes feeling hot again. "You like to hurt me."

Sherlock strode over his flatmate and put his pale, long-fingered hands on his shoulders.

"I would never hurt you," he said softly. "You keep me… me."

"You? You're insane," John stared resolutely into his friend's eyes.

"Only when you're around."

"I make you crazy?"

"Crazy's a complex word."

"You're a complex man," John breathed into the decreasing space between them.

"And your simplicity," Sherlock said, barely audibly, "is the very thing I want, more than anything."

"It's all yours…"

They were so close; John could see almost-invisible freckles on Sherlock's nose. The taller man was leaning down slightly, but froze at the touch of John's breath, unsure of what to do. John traced his friend's skin with his eyes, drinking in the milky smoothness, the soft grey eyes and those plump, feminine lips. His insides felt like liquid, and his feet seemed rooted to the floor. As if driven by some celestial force, his head tipped upwards, and his own, unsure, testing lips gently brushed Sherlock's. The taller man closed his eyes, savouring the feather-touch. They broke slightly apart and looked into one another's eyes, brown meeting grey-blue.

"That was certainly –" Sherlock began before John grabbed the back of his curly head and crushed their mouths together, teeth clashing and lips slipping as Sherlock pressed his doctor against the door. In the detective's mind, papers spilled out, files blew in a hurricane and information burned as one thing and one thing only make itself heard for the first time.


	6. Chapter 6

They broke apart, sharing the same oxygen, foreheads pressing together.

"That was certainly _different_," finished Sherlock with a ghost of a smile.

"You could say that," John gave a nervous laugh. He liked the feeling of his friend pressing him against the door, feeling the unusual firmness of a partner, along with a curious familiarity. It was not unpleasant. The softness was in different places, and the feel of Sherlock's mop of curling tendrils was addictive to his fingers. He brushed his friend's temple with the back of his hand and Sherlock flinched away automatically. John let his hand drop, feeling less defeated than he expected.

Sherlock swallowed nervously. "Forgive me, John," he said softly. "I'm not… I mean, I don't…"

"That's ok," the shorter man put a finger to Sherlock's sensual lips. This time, the detective did not shun the unexpected touch. "We don't have to rush anything. This is unfamiliar territory to me, too."

"Even being in the army?"

"Believe it or not, you're the first man…" the ex-soldier lost his thoughts at the sight of the palest blush from Sherlock Holmes. "Shit, do you have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Be yourself?"

"I told you; it's your fault," and they grinned at each other. Then the detective straightened, still smiling and strode back over to the notes as if nothing had happened. "Come on, John, let's get this tedious business out of the way," he said, shuffling the papers.

"And then?" the doctor slung his jacket on his armchair and picked up the remaining set of records.

"Then," Sherlock narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "It seems I have a new mystery to unravel."

"And what's that?" John asked innocently.

"The mystery of a certain Dr. John Hamish Watson, of course," Sherlock buried himself back in the papers without another word. John felt a warm, syrupy feeling ooze through him, and he allowed himself to feel comfortably happy before opening the pages to a stranger's past.

*/*/*/*

"Tonight's main headline; another kidnapping blights the streets of London, but is there any connection behind these crimes?" the stony-faced newsreader reported.

"As city streets increase their security, another person is snatched without trace," the image cut to a photograph of a slightly overweight, dark-haired teenager with glasses. "David Stafford was last seen leaving the Meadowhall shopping centre around noon on Friday. He was wearing a black coat, jeans and a yellow t-shirt with a black logo," the CCTV image flickered in slow motion, showing David Stafford carrying a 'Games Workshop' bag walking to the taxi rank. "After getting into what appeared to be an ordinary black cab, David disappeared. His mobile phone has remained switched off," the newsreader made a sympathetic face, before moving onto the next story.

"Well boys?" Greg Lestrade blipped the remote control, turning off the television. "That's another one. Another bloody kidnapping in broad daylight. That's four altogether, three possibly still alive."

"And what have London's finest been doing about it?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows raised.

"Everything we can," Lestrade shot back. "But there's nothing, Sherlock, no DNA, no camera images, nothing."

"What about CCTV, following the cab?" John suggested. Lestrade ran a hand over his tired face.

"As luck would have it, the motorway cameras were off that day – part of a money-saving thing," he rolled his eyes dramatically. "As soon as it gets to the M1, that's it – no trace."

"There's always a trace," Sherlock said, getting to his feet. "What about the bag David was carrying? Has that been found?"

"He must have kept it with him, well, you would, wouldn't you?"

"What about his medical history? Anything glaringly obvious?" John asked.

"Yeah," Lestrade pushed a paper towards the doctor. "He was a diet-controlled diabetic. He was on insulin injections for a while, but it says here they made him ill, because of complications with his rare blood type."

"What was that?" Sherlock froze, hands on his temples.

"He was a diabetic?" Lestrade cocked his head on one side.

"No, you said his blood… an extremely rare blood type…" Sherlock's mind was a whirl.

"David was AB- with additional Rh factors to consider… rare enough to be around 1 in 100 at the most," John recited from the paper. "Of course, depending on additional factors, it could be even rarer… it doesn't say."

"That's why she had been strung up, drained… Oh, god, John, what was Constance Green's blood type?"

"I don't know, everything's back at the flat!"

"We're going, now!" Sherlock slammed out of the glass cubicle, and ran for the exit, John jogged after him, Lestrade bringing up the rear.

"What's going on?" the D.I gasped.

"It must be their blood, that's why they were all taken," John said more steadily.

"What – they're all going to end up like..?" The image of the dry, browning corpse with its crown of still-glossy hair flashed into their minds.

"Shit" Lestrade spat as they burst into the street. Sherlock had a cab hailed.

"John! Now!" he bellowed.

"I'll start looking into blood, illegal trade, etc," Lestrade slapped John on the shoulder. "Go after him."

"Thanks," John said, sprinting over to the tall, pale man and throwing himself into the cab.

"Baker Street, and don't waste your time trying to drive a few extra pounds out of us," Sherlock snapped at the driver who quailed and stomped onto the accelerator with fright.

"So that it," John said, slowing his heartbeat down. "Blood. They want blood."

"Excellent," the detective breathed. "Finally, this is going somewhere," he started texting frantically.

John watched his long, pianist's fingers tracing the touchpad, holding the device softly, yet firmly. He considered putting his hand on Sherlock's knee. As if reading his mind, the consulting detective shifted his weight away from his friend and turned slightly towards the door of the cab. _Not now_, his body said. John fought off a strangling disappointment, and consoled himself with the fresh, exciting memory of the kiss. The soft feeling outweighed the disappointment, and he allowed himself to smile at the thought of being so close to a high-functioning sociopath. The light shone through the glass of the cab, causing him to blink away the daydream. The case was nearing its end, after all.

"Now we just have to find them," the doctor said, staring out of the window at the blurring trees and telegraph poles.

"We will, don't worry about that!" Sherlock had a mad gleam in his eye. "I'll find them if it kills me!"

The cab was warm, but John Watson felt an icy chill drip down his spine.

*/*/*/*

"The operation has to be headed up in London," Sherlock pointed at the map with a samurai sword. John wondered vaguely where it had come from. "Mr. Friedrich was originally to be stolen away on foot, at least at first, and the cab that took Mr. Stafford was registered to London, although stolen of course," he stabbed at Sheffield, then London again. "There'll be a warehouse, a building, somewhere receiving massive amounts of blood transfusion materials," he slashed across the map, causing the bottom half to float to the ground.

"You're right," Lestrade said from John's armchair. "Two buildings, actually, but they're both deserted," Sherlock frowned in confusion. "You think all I do is chase after you? We checked them out yesterday – empty. Nothing to be seen."

"New premises, then," Sherlock conceded.

"Could be a private address?" John offered, bringing in a tray of tea. "Difficult to keep track of those, I'd imagine."

"Almost certainly a private address," Sherlock agreed, unrolling a residential map of greater London. "Not central, too obvious…" he glared at the map on the floor, got down onto his knees and started tracing roads with his spidery fingers.

"Close to a main road, too," John suggested. "Quick get-away?"

"Excellent, John, thank you," Sherlock said with just the faintest aroma of sarcasm.

"Good transport links," Lestrade stood over Sherlock for a stare at the map.

"Canons Park," Sherlock said suddenly. "Close to the M1, surrounding woodland for hiding bodies, goods, etc, close enough to the Royal Orthopedic Hospital to steal medical supplies, that's it," he stabbed the sword through the map at Canons Park.

"Right, let me get a squad out," Lestrade headed for the door.

"Oh, please, inspector," Sherlock got to his feet. "A gang of highly-organised, murderous blood-thieves? They'll be expecting you."

"Oh, yeah? Then what do you suggest?" Greg folded his arms. Sherlock put his head on one side. _Do I have to explain that? _His expression said.

"Fine," Lestrade held up his hands. "But one of you call _immediately_ if you find _anything_ at all," he wrenched the door open. "I can't believe I'm letting you do this."

"Don't worry, Inspector," Sherlock winked at John. "I've got my blogger to protect me," and smiling vaguely, shut the door on Lestrade's descending footsteps.

"Protect you?" spluttered John. "The only thing you need protecting from is yourself."

"Yes, and don't think I've forgotten it," Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck. "You already saved me from myself so many times," he put on the long, black coat that was as much part of him as his grey-blue eyes. "You even killed someone to save me," he looked right at the doctor.

"I did," John said slowly. The shooting was not something they ever talked about. "But who's to say I would, or could do it again?"

"You say, John," Sherlock watched his friend shove his wallet into his inside pocket. "You tell me with every movement you make."

They trotted down the steps of 221B and headed for a cab, and Canons Park.


	7. Chapter 7

Canons Park was a residential area, full of terraced houses that curved in feminine lines around the roads. Trees dotted the pavements, spring leaves making an early appearance on some. The cab picked them up from the tube station and dropped them outside the park itself. It was a neatly kept garden, but rather quiet.

"School day, but still, not many people about," John remarked.

"Mm," Sherlock make a non-committal noise, heading over to the community noticeboard. There was a collection of flyers advertising jumble sales, coffee mornings and am-dram performances, as well as a yellowing map of the local area. "Look," he said, pointing at the red and blue lines. "Someone has disturbed this…" he reached and tested the metal latch on the glass-fronted board. It swung open easily. "Broken…"

"Local hoodies?" John suggested.

"No… picked lock. My guess is it should have been locked up afterwards," Sherlock ran a delicate finger over the mechanism. "But they've got sloppy. Shows how successful they've been…" Praise of the intelligence of criminals was something John could not stand.

"Sherlock," the shorter man squinted at the map. "What's that?" he pointed at a tiny, missable, red dot close to the green of the park on the paper.

Sherlock leaned up to it, his classical, curly head inside the cabinet. He glared at the red dot, as if daring it to reveal its secret. Then, to John's disgust, he licked it. And spat.

"Blood," he said, wiping his mouth unceremonially on his sleeve. "Not two days old," he spat again.

"It's ok, Sherlock," John tried to steady the detective, putting his doctor's hands on the taller man's back.

"They're here," Sherlock reeled. "That was a message to a buyer – find the blood here," he looked at the map again. "Smith Street, quickly, John, now!" he staggered again, then straightened, turning his collar up against his cheekbones and walking briskly out of the park. John jogged after him.

"You promised to ring Lestrade," he reminded the single-minded detective.

"I promise a lot of things," sniffed Sherlock. John stopped in his tracks.

_Promise a lot of things? Yes, that's the Sherlock Holmes everyone sees, isn't it? _He started to walk again. _The stone-hearted, self-centred man who only cares about his next thrill… _he remembered Sherlock's words: 'the mystery of Dr. John H Watson'. _Is that what I'm going to be? Just another case to solve?_ He watched Sherlock dig out his phone and text as he marched. _Then, what is this man to me? Friend? Much more than that… Lover? _

John felt himself blushing at the thought of what 'lover' would entail. _Then what? _He remembered the kiss – the furious, grabbing, tongues and lips frantically exploring in that explosive moment. _He's mine_, thought the army doctor, watching the retreating, coated back of the world's only consulting detective. _And right now, even if it ends, _(and here his chest twinged painfully) _right now, I wouldn't change him for the world._

"John, keep up!" Sherlock called over his shoulder. John Watson smiled sadly and jogged to march next to the man he couldn't, wouldn't say 'no' to.

*/*/*/*

David Stafford was not unintelligent. He had seen the news stories and read the papers. He knew, when the cab turned from his route home onto the motorway that he was in danger. He was also in need of some sugar, and the more fearful he became, the more urgent his need was.

"Please," he said in his teenage voice. "I, er, won't try and stop you or anything…" the driver did not turn or speak. "I, er, need some sugar. I'm diabetic? I could die, right here, right now," he tapped on the glass divider.

"Good," said a voice from the intercom. "That will save us some time." The voice was a woman's.

"Who are you?" spluttered the long-haired teen.

"You may call me Scarlett," the voice crooned. "Because that is the colour I am most interested in."

"Scarlet…. Like, red? Red, like blood?" David quick mind turned his stomach to slush.

"Exactly!" the voice sounded delighted. "Your blood, you delicious, plump thing."

"I, er, don't understand," he stammered.

"Oh, you will, my love. Now, there's some chocolate in the first aid kit in the door," David lunged for it. "And take it easy," the Scarlett voice sang. "I would like you in fine fettle, at least for a while…"

David ate the chocolate and sat, shaking on the plastic seat as the cab continued south towards the capital.

*/*/*/*

**Knock, knock.**

"Can I help you?" the lined face of the homeowner peeked around the door.

"Hi," John Watson said in a falsely cheerful voice. "I'm Dr. John Watson,) he flashed his I.D, "and I'm doing a verbal survey about your local GP services?"

"Oh," the door opened further. "Is this to do with the new hospital?"

"Yes, why not?" Sherlock said, appearing beside John. "Mycroft Holmes," he held out his hand, which the elderly man shook timidly.

"Well, I can't ask you in, but…"

"No problem," John said cheerily. "But we were wondering if you thought new neighbours affected your quality of care." The man gripped the door and glanced nervously inside.

"Don't like to… not in the street," he spluttered.

"Do you have new neighbours?" probed Sherlock.

"Yes," the homeowner whispered, pointing quickly to his left. "Few months ago… don't like to say, but…"

"But?" John smiled kindly.

"Something's not right," hissed the white-haired gent. "Too many cars, and all that _noise_," he started to close the door.

"What noise?" John stepped onto the lintel.

"Must be some new music, can't be anything else, no…" the man's eye was still visible through the crack left in the doorframe. "All that screaming…" And with that, he shut the door.

The two men walked back to the road and walked past the detached, Edwardian house. It had a pink front door and new uPVC windows. The garden was a little unkempt for the area, and there were three cars visible, one of which was a dark grey BMW.

"Could be Mr. Friedrich's last ride," John said under his breath.

"That van has been to The Royal Orthopedic lately… there's a parking stub in the tyre tread," Sherlock replied. They rounded the corner of the street and stopped at a bench, which john gratefully collapsed onto.

"Time to ring Lestrade," he said, digging his phone out.

"What for?"

"He said to ring him," John raised his eyebrows, as though explaining to a child. "He wants this above-board and squared away."

"I don't care what Lestrade wants," snapped the detective.

"Well, I want to tell him what's going on," John's fingers slipped on the glass-fronted device. Sherlock felt suddenly hot in the face and a frown began carving its way into his alabaster skin.

"What's your obsession with Lestrade, anyway?" he barked, batting at John's phone, which flew out of his hands and hit the pavement with a horrible crunch.

"What the _hell_, Sherlock?" John's mouth dropped open and he stood, his soldier's reflexes forcing him confrontationally close to the taller, thinner man.

"Don't you trust me?" Sherlock said mockingly.

"Not right now, I don't," said John. "You've broken my bloody phone!"

"Possessions can tie you down."

"Shut up," John turned and picked up the device which had a spectacular crack running diagonally across it. "I can't believe you've done this," he shoved the ruined phone into his pocket. "Well, actually, I can believe it," he looked into those uncaring ice-blue eyes. "You just do what you want, don't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said simply.

"And when we…" John felt his cheeks redden at the frantic memory. "Did you want that?"

"To kiss you?" Sherlock closed the gap between them with a casual step. "Did I try and stop you?"

"That's not the same as wanting something."

"It is to me," the dark-haired man put a hand onto his shorter, doctor-friend's shoulder. "Sometimes I don't know I want something until it's there. Be it a cup of tea, someone to clean the flat, or…"

"Or?" John fought to steady his breathing at the sight of Sherlock's classic, marble features so close.

"Or someone to – " the detective wrestled with a collection of words, none of which seemed to fit. "Someone to be there for me," he finished, resting his smooth forehead onto John's visibly aged one.

"You know I'll always be there for you, don't you?" John felt the increasingly familiar hot feeling in his eyes as he fought to keep his voice steady. "Whatever else you want from me, is just…"

"Impossible?" was that a note of fear in the cool detective's voice?

"Inevitable," John whispered, stroking Sherlock's nose with the tip of his own, so their heads turned like graceful dancers to meet, brushing cheeks, moving towards the promise of a repeated, gentle brush of mouth on mouth.

"Well, what have we here?" A woman's amused voice rang out above them, stopping their lips millimetres from connecting. "And you said there wouldn't be an engagement, Dr. Watson!" They broke apart to see a slender, blonde woman wearing a red, 1950s style dress and impossibly high heels grinning through scarlet lipstick at them. "Naughty, naughty to tell such lies."

"Who are you?" Sherlock snapped, standing straight in complete denial of being caught in the act.

"Moi?" she pursed her lips and brought her hands from behind her back to reveal a pistol. "I'm _exactly_ what you've been looking for, my dears." She motioned with the weapon and the two men began to walk in the direction of the house. "Faster," she sing-songed. "Don't want to keep me waiting, do you? You delicious-looking creatures!" and she laughed shrilly.

"Sherlock," John said almost noiselessly.

"Just go along with it, you'll be fine," the detective breathed back. They walked through the overgrown and glass-strewn garden to the door, which was opened for them by an extremely small man wearing thick glasses.

"Welcome to the Pleasuredome, my gorgeous boys!" the woman cackled, kicking the door shut behind her.


	8. Chapter 8

The hallway was painted stark white and smelled of disinfectant. On the stairs sat a man who was almost wider with muscle than he was tall. He sat polishing a short, glinting blade. The squat man in glasses cowered near the door.

"Through to the lounge, if you please," the scarlet woman said, nudging Sherlock in the back with the barrel of the pistol. The detective stiffened at the touch but urged John forward with an elbow. The doctor was entering 'soldier mode' and was effortlessly taking in the weapons, surroundings and enemies. His eyes had become dull.

They walked into the back room, which was also painted white, with white leather sofas and no television. The only colour came from a red, glowing I.V that was plumbed into the crook of David Stafford's arm. The plastic line wound over the arm of the sofa into a bag, which was collecting steady drips of bright, red blood.

David was no longer plump. He had, over two days, lost a lot of weight. His skin looked yellow and there was an impressive bruise on the side of his head. As the footsteps entered the room, he looked up sharply, then dropped his head as if to hide.

"Don't worry, my sweet," the woman crooned as she indicated a sofa for Sherlock and John. The heavy-set man with the knife stood in the doorway. "They aren't buyers, rather fools who came to save you…" David looked up at the two men; one tall, one short; one dark, one blonde; one ageless, one aging and his eyes swam with tears.

"There, there," she leant over David and stroked his face with the back of her hand. He cringed and leaned away slightly. The blonde captor's blue eyes widened in disgust and she sharply slapped the teenager, leaving a neat line of welling blood where a manicured nail sliced his soft skin. As the blood trickled down, she squealed in delight.

"Look, my money maker!" she grabbed David's head and yanked it upwards, painfully. "How delightful," she simpered, and licked the slice of wound with a perfect, pink tongue.

"What is this? What are you doing?" John couldn't sit and watch this any longer. His doctor's eyes saw the unsterilized equipment, the bruise in David's inner elbow and the steady drip, drip of blood leaving his body.

"Ooo, you shouldn't ask things you might not like the answer to," she let go of the boy and rotated on a stiletto heel to face her new charges. "It might make you ever so cross!" she pouted a lipsticked mouth.

"You're selling blood," Sherlock said, looking her in the eye. John noticed how their irises were nearly identical.

"Correct, of course, clever boy," she tipped her head on one side and dropped her gun arm. "To whom?"

"Buyers in Taiwan," Sherlock shot back. "Fewer than 0.3% of people are born with AB- blood in Taiwan. Not to mention the flight tickets to Taipei in the sideboard and the unridden Taiwanese bicycles in what passes for a garden around here," he gestured with his chin, and the woman's face split into a grotesque smile.

"Excellent, Mr Holmes," she breathed. She sashayed over to the sofa and bent to push her face close to the detective's. "You know, I was once a client of Irene Adler's, poor thing," she blinked. "She told me _so much_ about you…"

"Delighted to hear it," Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on her eyes.

"Doesn't it ever get _hard?_" she touched his knee with a painted fingernail. John felt all the blood in his body rush to his face and fists. He wanted to hurt this woman. On the opposite sofa, David put his head in his hands and made a small noise. "Well, if not hard, it must become so _difficult_," she grinned. "and so very _wretched_ to deny yourself…" she leaned in close to the full lips of Sherlock Holmes, inhaling the detective's signature scent of lemon zest and smoky chemicals.

"Deny?" Sherlock kept his eyes, a scarily similar shade to the woman's, locked onto her expanding pupils. "Rise above, I call it."

"I would say, Mr. Holmes," she was much too close, "that you have not _risen_ in quite… some… time…"

"Stop it!" John Watson found himself on his feet, giving the woman a colossal shove, so she toppled in her heels onto the arm of the sofa, dropping her gun to save herself. Sherlock did not move – he appeared frozen to the spot.

"You _dare_ to touch me!" she shrieked. The knife-wielding man grabbed John by one arm, but John's army training had not left his mind completely and he grasped the offending arm back, twisting it and ducking to avoid the clumsy slash of the blade. One skilful punch to the temple and the thug collapsed onto the snowy carpet. There was a tell-tale click as the blonde woman picked up her gun, aiming it squarely at John Watson's chest.

"Cute, but not so smart," she said simply.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" John's knuckles were bleeding, he was shaking and sweating. Sherlock was shaking his head minutely behind the woman's back, David Stafford had gone grey with fright and blood loss, but John Watson was beyond caring.

Everything in this case had built up and combined. From the first disappearance to the dried, leathery corpse falling through the ceiling, now a young man being bled like a stuck pig in a hospital-esque house, all the fears and frustrations, seasoned with the lust and fright of losing Sherlock balled into a fat, hard rock of anger and irrationality. He was ready to throw himself into the path of the bullet, even if it meant never seeing…

_Oh, god, I couldn't, _his arms relaxed. _I couldn't say goodbye to you. Not now. Even though you'll never… I could never. _The gun-toting woman smiled as she watched the army doctor's body show his defeat.

"Now," she said softly. "Give me your phone," she held out her hand. John dropped the broken device into the soft palm. She threw it harshly away and it crunched against the wall, the glass front coming cleanly away from the battery pack.

"And sit. There," she nodded towards David who was shaking, head still in hands. John's heavy legs took him towards the leather sofa and he collapsed onto it. "Henry!" she shrieked. The squat, balding man inched into the room.

"Mistress?" he hissed.

"Watch these creatures," she spat. "If either of them displeases me, kill them."

"Yessss mistress," Henry gave a short bow, and stood staring at the boy and man, one of whom stared back.

"And as for you, Mr Holmes," she turned towards the statue-like detective, who looked blandly back. "You will come with me," and glancing meaningfully at the ceiling she grinned the hideous, lipsticked grin again.

Sherlock gave a slow, deliberate blink. "Oh, I don't think so," he said, and stood up. "In the time it will take Dr. Watson to overpower your Igor-like manservant, I will have taken from you everything you think you hold dear."

"Will you, my darling?" she pouted, pushing a lock of blonde hair behind one ear. "And how will you do that?"

Sherlock reached into his coat and drew out Dr. John Watson's service revolver, pointing it sharply under his own chin. "I will blow my head off," he said, and gave one of his own beautiful smiles.

*/*/*/*

"And that would be a grave shame, Mr Holmes," came a voice from the hallway. The people in the lounge turned in unison to see a slightly short, black-haired man with rectangular-rimmed glasses march into the room. He put his manicured hands into his suit trousers and cocked his head on one side. "We were hoping you would stay with us, at least for a while."

"Massster," hissed Henry, who cowered more at the sight of the new arrival.

"Out, Harry, we shall continue our discussions later," the man nodded towards the door. The heavy-set man inched out, bowing and sweating.

"Now," the raven-haired man said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Where were we?"

"Miss Green's boyfriend, I presume?" Sherlock said sarcastically, the barrel of the gun still touching his chin.

"Please, call me Alfie," the newcomer smiled. "Ah, Connie. She was hard work. It was all too easy to leech her of blood whilst she was in hospital, but as soon as she was let out, there was so much… sacrifice," he gritted his teeth. "All that visiting, assuming, changing prescriptions and finally ending it all."

"Why did you kill her?" John asked from the sofa. "Why not keep her hooked up, like David?" he smiled kindly at the teenager, who flinched.

Alfie grinned, showing bleached teeth. "Supply and demand, my dear doctor," he strolled over to Scarlett and took her gun from her. "If we require more blood than is in one person, I am afraid they must meet their end," he checked the gun over, passing it from hand to hand.

"Where are Mr Freidrich and Mrs Polichi?" Sherlock kept his icy eyes fixed onto Alfie. John's eyes flickered all over the room – the windows were reinforced; the front door was locked; Alfie was martial-arts trained, evident from the way he shifted his weight and held his hands still; Sherlock (_Sherlock…)_ was still pointing the service revolver into his own flesh… John felt a chill run down his back.

The revolver held only one bullet. If Sherlock fired to kill one of their captors, the other would retaliate with their own weapon. He would never shoot himself… would he? Why was he even threatening…?

"And why, Mr Holmes," Alfie said, looking up at the detective. "Are you jamming that unpleasant weapon under your ridiculous chin?"

"This was all too easy," Sherlock almost smiled. "The kidnappings in broad daylight? The car left at the scene? The drop of blood on the map?"

"We had to get you in, somehow," Alfie said modestly, handing Scarlett her gun back.

"And you fell for it, love," she pouted. "You wanted to tell us just how silly we'd been! Give us a good spanking and telling off," she smirked.

"Even though the real clue stared you in the face," Alfie blew a kiss at Scarlett. "Blood. Red, hot, wet blood…"

David Stafford squeaked from the end of the sofa. John Watson reached to pat his shoulder, but stopped as Scarlett's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Blood," agreed the tall, self-threatening detective. "The rarest blood type, buyers ready, all factors considered…" his eyes widened a fraction.

"Ah, has it just sunk in? The pointlessness of your resistance?" Alfie stepped towards Sherlock, his eyes unblinking behind their spectacles. "You will go with Scarlett, Sherlock Holmes. This," he waved a dismissive hand at the revolver. "Is pointless. I know that you truly do not wish to die," he smiled gently, and then winked at Scarlett who cocked her pistol and aimed it squarely at John Watson. "And I know your feelings for your friend will make you do the right thing," he stepped closer to the alabaster face of the taller man. "Rest in peace, assured that we will kill him, and that it won't be quick…"


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock Holmes saw time grind almost to a halt as he assessed the situation. His priorities lined up, numbered neatly, with careful notes explaining the decisions behind each one.

Solving crime was indeed important, but in the present situation was way down the list. Keeping that scared teenager safe; quite important, but he was not threatened directly. He could survive. Self preservation, then… and John.

John Hamish Watson. The short, lumberjack-shirt wearer who made an excellent cup of tea. The man who brought the shopping, dusted between the books and listened, constantly. The doctor, whose healing hands had patched up Sherlock's skin on many occasions – the feeling of caring flesh against chemical burns blazed into his memory. John Watson was the man whose touch he had not shunned – had encouraged, sought even. The soldier who killed in defence of another. Who had pulled with surprising force Sherlock's lips onto his own. The man who now, looked at Sherlock with eyes filled with fear; not of dying, but of leaving someone behind…

*/*/*/*

John Watson was scared. He had not felt fear since being covered in explosives by Jim Moriarty's gang of heavies, and this fear was different yet again. He did not fear death. Everyone dies, and John had seen enough death to be able to take mortality with a pinch of salt. But this was a situation he had never known before. He was afraid to be without Sherlock. The thought of the tall, dark-haired man pulling the trigger and leaving the insides of his head splattered across the wall made him want to curl up and cry. He had never wanted to protect someone so much in his life.

This impossible, irritating, know-it-all had wormed his way into John's heart and settled there, almost unnoticed, until lust began to play its part. But this situation, with two lives at stake, was not lustful – it was savage. Blood boiled in John's veins, and the skin stretched to tightly over his knuckles he feared it would split. He would not, could not, let Sherlock destroy himself. If he had to leave him behind, even in the hands of these freaks, it would be better than living with the sight, the sound and the memory of the death of the man he…

_What? Oh, John, just admit it to yourself. _He watched Sherlock's bright eyes grow dim as the detective made some conscious decision. _You love him, John Watson. _He bit his bottom lip in fear at his own, mental admission. _And there's fuck all you can do about it, now. _

*/*/*/*

Sherlock slowly lowered the gun, and his enemies' eyes lit up.

"Throw it to the floor, Mr Holmes," Alfie said, a smile taking shape. The taller man did so; the pistol landing with a dull thud on the carpet. John Watson made an audible sigh.

"No need to worry, my pet," Scarlett winked at him, applying the safety to her own weapon. "I have no need to kill the lover if the one we want is willing."

_Lover?_

"Now, if you would, Mr Holmes," said Alfie, stepping over the still-unconscious bodyguard. You will accompany me… us upstairs."

"Of course," Sherlock gave a little bow and followed the spectacled man out of the room.

"You go with them," Scarlett flicked her head towards the hall. John got to his feet and walked heavily after his friend. The blonde woman followed, locking the lounge door behind her. The hallway smelled stronger of the disinfectant, as though someone had just opened a bottle. There was a collection of high-heeled shoes near the door, all different shades of red.

The party ascended the stairs and entered a room which, unlike the rest of the house, was painted black, with dark wooden floors. In the centre of the room was a large, wooden chair with metal wrist and ankle restraints. Seated in the throne-like chair was…

"Mr Friedrich," Sherlock said softly, looking at the leathery corpse. Flies were buzzing around the entrances to the corpse's soft interiors – maggots moved at the eyes, mouth and ears. They were the only movement. Bizarrely, the dead man was still dressed in drag – the blue skirt and blonde wig the only colour about the cadaver. John had seen his fair share of dead bodies, and he assumed the disinfectant was covering the otherwise potent stench of rotting human flesh.

"Henry, get rid of that," Alfie shoved Sherlock towards the chair, and the Igor-like manservant, unnoticed by all but Sherlock and Alfie inched from the shadows and unstrapped the body and dragged in to a corner, where it lay, buzzing with flies and other insects. "And clean this chair," Alfie added, noticing the wet, brown mess left behind by the late Joseph Friedrich. The squat man sprayed and wiped the chair all over, quicker than Mrs Hudson would have done.

"Your chair," Alfie indicated with a hand. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and looked down on the man.

"You assume I'm just going to sit in this chair and let you take my blood?" he sneered. "You will have to try harder than that," the detective rolled his ice-blue eyes.

"Oh, I haven't even started yet," hissed the shorter man, who suddenly chopped the detective at the back of his head, where his mop of curls ended. Sherlock coughed in surprise, then pain, as Alfie kneed him in the stomach before grabbing hold of Sherlock's hair and yanking his beautiful head backwards. Scarlett pressed her revolver against the temple of the army doctor, in full view of the gasping Sherlock.

"We will _kill_ him, do you understand?" snarled Alfie, holding the taller man's hands behind his back. "We will splatter the wall with his inferior brains, and then we will drip you dry like a dog."

"John…" Sherlock gasped, fighting for eye contact. "John… dis… dis…"

"This is where the great Sherlock Holmes met his end, or at least the beginning of his end," Alfie breathed into the ear of the man whose blood he desired. "Now, you will sit," and he marched Sherlock to the chair, and shoved him against it.

Scarlett pushed the barrel of the gun against John's head, forcing him to stand in front of the man he had made up his mind to love, to watch as Henry and Alfie began tearing off Sherlock's coat, suit jacket and deep purple fitted shirt, revealing the sculpted marble chest and muscular neck that John had watched so often back at Baker Street. They flung the coat onto the floor, but left the left sleeves of the shirt and jacket hanging stupidly on Sherlock's right wrist. It seemed too much effort to force the clothing over his watch. Henry stood to one side, hands folded as Alfie whispered something to the hurting Sherlock. He then turned and grinned.

"One treat, for good behaviour," he beckoned John over. "You may say goodbye to your lover, Dr. Watson," he indicated Sherlock and waited, his fingertips barely touching the unbuckled wrist of the detective, from which hung the designer jacket and purple shirt he always wore.

John's legs were made of hot liquid, and it hurt to take even a single step towards the defeated man whose right arm was securely bolted onto the chair. Before he could think of anything to say, their knees were touching – a teasing memory of that train ride that seemed so long ago.

"John… please," Sherlock's free hand reached out slightly. The doctor took it, feeling a calm pulse and warm skin. The left arm, buckled into the metal and leather shackle was tense, ending in a beautiful fist. The detective pulled his friend softly closer, so John had to stoop to push his aging face closer to the milky smooth skin and full lips of his friend. Alfie's grip on the Sherlock's wrist tightened slightly.

"Sherlock, this isn't…" John tried to speak.

"No, John. This wasn't… we weren't…" the detective took a deep breath. "It was just a distraction, Dr. Watson," he said clearly. "Us, the case, everything. It was only a distraction. Just, go and try to be happy," he let go of the older man's hand and turned his eyes away to stare at the lapel of his captor.

"I don't… Wait, we… but at the flat, when…" the doctor's words failed him as the light seemed to fade entirely from the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Just a distraction," came the whisper again. Then John Watson felt the pit fall out of his stomach. Did Sherlock mean _this_, as in _right now_? He let his eyes fall onto the suit of Sherlock's captor – expensive. And a crisp shirt… no body armour. Was this it? He flickered a look at Sherlock's dilated pupils. Was that _yes_? No time to think now, only time to act.

"Goodbye, then," he said, his voice choking with genuine emotion. Alfie gave a theatrical sniff and nodded for John to step back to Scarlett. John looked down at the stoic and expressionless detective and nodded once.

Then, with the trained force of a British soldier, he struck. Ploughing a military fist into the side of the captor's face, John felt his skin break and at least one hand bone crunch. At almost the same moment, Sherlock used his free right arm to stab the syringe of yellow liquid he had been hiding up his sleeve into Henry's neck. The syringe dropped from his sleeve and bounced on the wooden floors. The manservant collapsed onto the floor, convulsing.

John pulled his arm back for another hit of Alfie, watching Sherlock unfasten his arm restraint, and was about to knock out several of the man's teeth when something white-hot, savage and familiar bit into his muscle. A bullet ground its way into John's already-wounded shoulder, but Dr Watson was not about to receive a second. With a steely ferociousness, he pulled Alfie upright and spun him around as the second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth bullets headed towards him.

Watching Alfie spasm with blood pouring out of his eyes and mouth, John had time to see Sherlock knock Scarlett unconscious before the blackness eating at the edge of his eyes took him and he slipped into the cold arms of unconsciousness.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ding.**

**Ding.**

**Ding.**

**Ding. **_Phone, Sherlock._

**Ding. **_Wasn't he going to get that? _

**Ding. **_No, not 'ding'… 'beep'…_

**Beep. **

**Beep. **

**Beep. **

**Beep. **

**Beep. **_I know that sound…_

**Beep. **_That's a heart-rate monitor. _

**Beep. **_So I am definitely alive, which is brilliant, really. _

**Beep. **_Sigh… I'd really like to open my eyes right now. _

**Beep. **_Getting shot for the second time, that's got to be a sign I should relax more. _

**Beep. **_Can't even tell if it hurts. _

**Beep. **_Where's Sherlock? _

**Beep. **_Oh, god, what happened in that house? _

**Beep. **_What if… I can't hear anything, this is stupid. _

**Beep. **_Sherlock? _

**Beep. **_I'm so sorry…_

**Beep.**

**Beep.**


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock had never been one for sleeping, but even he had to admit it was an achievement to stay awake for three solid days. After using Scarlett's gun to threaten his way out of the house, dragging a surprisingly heavy John and a bleeding and terrified David Stafford, he had finally done as John wanted, and called the police. The tedium that had followed was obscene. Now, he was back in his beloved St. Bartholomew's Hospital, only this was his first time visiting a living person.

"Oh, you silly, silly boys," Mrs Hudson sniffed into a linen handkerchief. Sherlock kept his eyes on the patient and ignored her. "Always running into trouble, I knew something like this was going to happen," she reached over and took the cool hand of John Watson. "It's always the quieter ones that get hurt," she said and squeezed the hand slightly. There was no response, only the rhythmic **beep… beep** of the monitor. "Well, I'll leave you two together," she clicked her handbag closed and shut the cubicle door behind her.

Sherlock released the breath he had been holding through his nose. He had been sitting in the same chair, staring at the unconscious John for hours, without a sign. His friend's shoulder was heavily bandaged and hooked up to a drain to keep fluid away from the new metal and ceramic plate in his shoulder.

Dr. Watson looked _old_. Though his face was smoothed in sleep, the equipment and surroundings added years to his looks, but Sherlock could not tear his staring eyes away. In those last, glorious moments that he had had John conscious, he had longed to say so much… To put into words the hot, fluid feeling that coursed through him, even when there was no case to solve. There was a tingling feeling that ran, electric, over his already sensitive skin, as it buzzed to make contact with the war-roughened, practical flesh of his friend.

It was more than lust, more than a simple, carnal desire, it was a need that could only be fed through being close. And Sherlock was not going to leave John's side for one second.

"Where… S'lock…"

The detective's head snapped up from where it had been nodding onto his chest.

"S…sorry," came the mumbled voice again.

"John," Sherlock said firmly, leaning over the bed to stare at the frowning, eyes-closed face of the ex-soldier. "John, open your eyes, look at me," he touched John's shoulder with his spidery fingers. The soldier's eyelids moved slightly.

"Sher…"

"That's it, John, wake up, all the way, come all the way back," the curly-haired man leaned over so far his nose brushed his friend's. John's eyelids cracked open and he blinked to clear the drug-induced fog from his vision.

"Sh'lock?" he whispered, frowning up at the growing smile above him.

"I'm here, John."

"I thought… I got… shot?"

"You did, John, but you're fine, understand, just like before," Sherlock gripped both John's shoulders gently. "You're at St. Barts, we're alright."

"What… you… saved me?" John blinked and winced at the sensation of the drain in his shoulder.

"Yes, yes I did," Sherlock sat back on the bed and took in the full picture of the vulnerable, wounded, waking John Watson. "I told you you'd be fine if you just went along with it."

"Some people wouldn't call getting shot 'fine'," John said, finding the bed adjuster and moving it to sit slightly up. "Bloody hell, this is sore."

"Do you want the nurse?"

"No, I just need – " John stopped and went red. Sherlock looked down at the clean linoleum. It was a tense moment. "I just need you, right now, Sherlock…"

The detective spun his head so quickly his mop of curls spun elegantly and his mouth opened slightly in surprise.

"Sorry," said John. "I… made a decision. In that place. No more lying to myself, and no more lying to you," he looked straight into the morning-blue eyes of the tall, handsome man. "I think I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

In the silence of the private room, one could almost hear the cogs grinding in the mind of the world's only consulting detective. A tiny, almost invisible smile began to grow, until it spread upwards, with a flash of perfect teeth and those ordinarily cold eyes sparkled with the delight of vindication.

"I thought as much," Sherlock replied with the smugness he usually reserved for solving a case. "I said I had a mystery to unravel in you, John Watson," he leaned forwards again, one arm over John's reclining body to steady himself. "Though it seems for once, you were able to unravel it before I was."

"It was all that wandering about the flat naked, wasn't it?" John laughed nervously.

"A good way to test the wandering of your eyes…"

"And taking my pulse?"

"Well, I've used that before," they were much closer, now.

"The train?"

"I _needed_ to touch you…"

"And the kiss?"

"Was nothing," Sherlock said, clamping his lips onto John Watson's with a blistering passion that clashed teeth onto lips, tongues slipped and John squeaked in pain as he reached up to thread his fingers through that glorious crown of dark curls. They inhaled each other, tasting, exploring every bit of the other's mouth. Then, as quickly as it began, they broke apart.

"This," John said, licking his lips. "This is where you tell me something too, you know."

"Oh, I know," Sherlock said, grinning teasingly. "But you already know too, don't you?"

"Don't say that," John's smile faded slightly, and Sherlock took his round, lined face in his alabaster hands.

"Dr. John Hamish Watson," he said seriously, his eyes pouring into the shorter man's. "You have been my flatmate, friend, colleague and confidant for the past year, and now I have the _pleasure_," he emphasised the word slowly. "Of calling you the man that I truly, honestly, and inexplicably love."

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you too, John."

"So what happens now?"

"Why don't we let you get better first?" Sherlock said, lowering John back onto the thin hospital pillows. "I'm sure life will throw an adventure at us."

"It usually does," the doctor grinned back.

"Although," the detective mused, his eyes touching every part of his love, "we may have started an adventure of our own."

"Happily ever after?"

"For as long as I'm alive," Sherlock said gently, and leaned forward to plant an innocent kiss on the forehead of the man he hoped to never leave behind.

*/*/*/*

Somewhere in Greater London...

_If my brother insists on ignoring me, I shall simply have to do this without his permission..._

"That's him, sir," the intercom fuzzed. Mycroft Holmes' already thin lips almost vanished.

"Prepare the best room for Mr Moriarty," he replied, releasing the button quickly. It had been a long night, and it was not over yet.

"How will you be interrogating him, sir?" Captain Edwards finished typing a memo and snapped the laptop shut.

"Obviously, Tom," Mycroft said, getting to his feet. "We're going to offer him a little… _distraction_…" and picking up a plastic wallet containing letters, papers and several photographs of the younger Holmes brother, he set off down the corridor, head held high.


End file.
